


A Question of Skin

by tunteeton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Because There Always Needs to Be Tea, Can't Have a Sherlock Fic Without Tea, Clueless Sherlock, Cute overload, Emphasis on Comfort, Even More Fluff, Handholding, Heroes Love Dogs, Hurt/Comfort, It's Too Cute I Can't, It's an experiment, John is a Very Good Doctor, Long-Suffering John, M/M, Not That He Gets It, POV Sherlock Holmes, Partial Nudity, Protective Sherlock, Series 1 Is My Happy Place, Showers, Sickfic, Solve It With Science, Somehow Fluff, Sweet Innocent Kissing, The Obligatory Thames Reference, Towels, and tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I'm objecting to you,” John mutters, stabbing a finger at his direction. “Naked. In the kitchen. Never mind the pansies.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes doesn't go out of his way to annoy people.

Usually.

Granted, rebuking Anderson is often too easy to deny himself the pleasure. He doesn't even have to think about it, these days. It's the same with Sally Donovan, although she often proves to be a tougher target. And Mycroft would probably swallow his smug tongue if Sherlock just went and accepted one of the cases he keeps throwing at his direction. So maybe it should be said that while he doesn't go out of his way to annoy people, he also doesn't go out of his way to avoid annoying people. In short, Sherlock Holmes doesn't change his ways because of other people.

But no, Sherlock certainly doesn't waste his valuable time coming up with ways to cause mayhem. After all, mayhem quite often takes care of itself without his active input, followed by murder and mystery with pleasing readiness. There are some who would disagree, however. His new flatmate is probably the first in line (well, after Sally and Anderson anyway).

He had decided he rather liked John Watson rapidly after gaining the man's acquaintance. John seems to be delightfully open-minded when it comes to Sherlock's choice of a lifestyle. He tolerates the experiments and downright delights in the cases. As a cherry on top of the already pleasing cake, he actively dislikes Mycroft. Truly, John Watson is a flatmate par excellence in Sherlock's quite learned opinion. However, John still has some shortcomings, such as his obsession with social mores.

Really, Sherlock didn't mean to cause a scene.

All he wanted to do was have a nice, hot shower. One would imagine that taking care of personal hygiene would be a positive aspect in the social psychology of sharing a flat, but John's huffing tells a different story. If the man's head gets any redder, Sherlock will be forced to drop his towel and measure his blood pressure. For science and the coming generations.

“Sherlock,” John sputters in a voice which is much shriller than one would expect from an ex-army captain. “Sherlock, what's that?”

Sherlock looks at where John is looking, which seems to be his own body. He frowns. While John is an idiot, this should be his area. This, he really should know, being a doctor and spending his time around half-naked people on a daily basis.

“It's my chest,” he hazards, and John stops gaping for a moment long enough to shake his head.

“No, not – that,” he says, and it sounds like he's burned his tongue on the coffee. “I meant _that_.” This time, the question is accompanied by a finger, shakily pointing somewhere lower.

“Oh,” Sherlock answers, the realisation finally dawning on him. “I didn't use yours, I know you're particular about those. It's one of Mrs Hudson's, don't worry.”

 _See, John?_ He refrains from saying. _I know the flatmate code by now. I listened._

However, this reassurance doesn't seem to ease John's mind at all.

“A- a towel,” he says, rather lamely in Sherlock's opinion. Of course it's a towel.

“Of course it's a towel,” he repeats aloud, “I just took a shower. What do you expect me to do, roll myself dry on the carpet?”

“A hand towel,” John ignores the barb, his voice faint. “Around your – your – ”

“Hips,” Sherlock agrees, tiring of this conversation. “What's the matter with that?”

“It's so – small,” says John, eyes briefly boring into Sherlock's midsection. “I didn't expect that.”

“Well, all the bigger towels are still dirty after _someone_ poured acid over them. I'm assuming we _are_ still talking about towels.”

“Flatmate rule number one, label your poisons,” John answers even while his ears turn a charming red colour. “How was I supposed to know you had reappropriated all our – no, we aren't going there now. A hand towel, Sherlock. It's not exactly a bathrobe.”

“All my dressing gowns are in my bedroom,” Sherlock replies, holding the towel closed with one hand.

“And yet you're in the kitchen,” John muses. “Clad in a fancy floral hand towel. How reassuring.”

“The door to my bedroom is blocked,” Sherlock reminds him. “You said you'd help me push the bed back to its own place. Until that is accomplished I'll have to walk through the kitchen. I fail to see what's the problem here, unless it's the print you're protesting to. In which case, you can take your objections downstairs. It's Mrs Hudson's, after all.”

“I'm objecting to you,” John mutters, stabbing a finger at his direction again. “Naked. In the kitchen. Never mind the pansies.”

“I’m not naked!” Sherlock twirls around, just to demonstrate his point. All the societally frowned-upon places are covered. Mostly.

John is licking his lips, a nervous tick. Really, why does the man work himself so tight over something as insignificant as this?

“But couldn’t you find anything larger? That thing barely covers your - your - bits.”

Oh. Of course. It's that thing again. Sherlock sniffs. John really should know better by now. The flatmate code does extend to both directions, after all. If he's supposed to make amends, then John must be reasonable, too.

“Bits, John? Is that what this is all about? Can’t a doctor be a _bit_ more specific?”

“Um,” says John, folding the napkin into a little triangle, then a square. Avoidance tactics for toddlers, how pathetic. Sherlock straightens his back, fights the urge to drop the towel just to get a reaction out of the infuriating man. John must see his grip getting laxer, because the next thing Sherlock knows is cold blue eyes pinning him into place.

“Fine,” says John, in a completely different voice, and it’s an answer to an unvoiced challenge. “Specifics.”

His eyes travel slowly down Sherlock’s chest, taking in all the available information. For the first time since stepping into the kitchen, Sherlock feels underdressed. It’s not a nice feeling. He savours it.

John hasn’t moved from his spot by the table, but Sherlock can still feel his gaze on his body as if it was a physical thing. John is looking at the towel. No, John is _assessing_ the towel. It is, in fact, quite a skimpy one now that Sherlock thinks about it. John’s eyes narrow and Sherlock has to fight to keep standing still, to not fidget on his feet.

“Testicles,” his flatmate recites, voice professional, detached. “Penis.”

He raises his eyes, leaving imagined white-hot tracks on Sherlock’s exposed belly, over his ribs. This was a stupid idea. Whose idea was this?

“Nipples,” John continues. “Cold, are you?”

What an absurd allegation! His skin is still warm after the shower and anyway, it’s an August evening. Of course Sherlock isn’t cold. He opens his mouth to inform John about these facts when he happens to glance down.

Oh.

Okay.

“Yes,” he decides. “Yes I am. I’ll just go and put something on.”

“Also, please eat something today,” John calls after his hastily retreating back. “You look like you've been starved.”


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John shakes his head and then that head drops down and to his side, and Sherlock is nearly naked and John is kneeling at his feet, and he has read of this sort of thing, but sulphuric acid had never featured in those proceedings._

“You're one lucky bastard, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock doesn't feel lucky. He's shirtless and wet in front of half of the Scotland Yard and Donovan is taking photos. This may be Lestrade's idea of heaven, but he strongly disagrees.

“Luck is a manufactured construct designed to lull the simple minds into apathy when they are unable to grasp the true uncaring randomness of the universe.” 

He knows he sounds like he's in a sulk. That's all right, because that's exactly what he is. Everybody is overreacting, even Anderson. His coat may very well be ruined. He liked that coat. He's attached to that coat. Also, the water is cold. Couldn't they find a hose with a hot water option?

“Mutter all you want, but this thing just saved your hide,” John declares in his best official voice, thrusting Sherlock's poor coat into a dirty yellow plastic bag. The next round of icy water hits him straight in the chest before he has time to snap back. He yells, a wordless roar of nerves and revenge. Donovan snickers.

“Someone take the hose off from Anderson!” Sherlock demands, but the gathered cops don't even budge. It must have been an extraordinarily slow day at the Yard if disgraced consulting detectives manage to capture such a riveted audience.

“You're supposed to be a genius,” Lestrade declares while John waves Anderson off and crouches to inspect Sherlock's ribs. “Why didn't you figure out our guy would still be carrying around a handy can of that acid? Or, at least, why didn't you dodge it?” 

“Any itching here?” John asks, nose almost in his navel.

“No,” Sherlock snaps. “It's a heavy coat. As to why I did what I did, it should be obvious even to you, Lestrade. I -”

John straightens himself then, and there's a half second while they just stare at each other, both knowing what Sherlock is about to say. But John gives him the smallest smile, the kind that never leaves his eyes, and turns to Lestrade, easily talking over him. Sherlock cuts himself off, blinking at that tawny head. Oh. He hadn't really even thought about it. It had been a reflexive action. Which doesn't make sense. What kind of a reflex makes you throw yourself _at_ the danger?

“I think he's all right for a ride home now, if you don't mind,” John says and Sherlock hears the command in that voice. _If you don't mind_ his arse. John is going to take Sherlock home regardless of Lestrade's minding, that much should be clear to everyone involved.

Suddenly, he feels kind of panicked. Donovan is smiling a wicked, wicked smile.

Sherlock raises his jaw, glares at Lestrade over John's head. The DI's expression makes it clear that he heard the hidden captain, too.

“Just wait a second, I think I have a spare shirt in my car,” Lestrade answers, throwing his keys to one of the constables. “I'm carrying it around in case someone ruins mine. It's a lucky thing we're about the same size, isn't it?”

Lestrade's offered garment is a horrid pinstriped affair in blues and whites and it hangs on Sherlock's bony shoulders like a sweatshirt. He guesses that it's better than nothing, if only just barely. Donovan is still taking photos. There's no way to make a dignified exit out of this mess.

“We did catch your murderer,” Sherlock reminds Lestrade, trying to salvage what little he can. The older man nods solemnly.

“Yes. That's the only reason I'm loaning you my second-best shirt. You take care of that shirt, Sherlock. I'm expecting to see it unharmed tomorrow.”

“We're happy to help, too,” John quips and then they are on the street, and soon there's a cab stopping for them and the ride home has never seen been quite so quiet, or so long.

The silence shatters as soon as the flat's door is closed behind their backs. John abandons the yellow plastic bag and turns on him, and Sherlock is reminded of an eagle or a hawk, all intense stares and measured movements.

“Take off your trousers,” John orders and Sherlock nearly bites his own tongue off. He didn't expect that.

“But -”

“I saw you scratching, in the cab. Do I need to remind you of the effects of highly corrosive acidic substance on human skin? Take off your fucking trousers, Sherlock Holmes. And that terrible shirt too. I need to check your ribs again.”

“I could just go and have a long shower,” Sherlock pleads, backing against the wall, and only when he hits it he comes to wonder why he's reacting this strongly. It's only transport, isn't it? John has seen as much, even more, earlier. And it's surprisingly nice that he cares.

“That bucket of liquid death was meant for me,” John tells him, voice flat, without intonation, and Sherlock shrugs because yes, it was. He thought they had this covered earlier, at the crime scene?

Maybe he had misunderstood.

But John continues, not quite furious but not far from it either. A shouted sentence would make it easier, but John doesn't shout. He stalks, coming closer until they're nose to nose, and Sherlock doesn't understand. He thought he did a good thing?

“You blocked it for me. You moron. You could have lost your eyes. Your hands. No more deducing, Sherlock. No more playing the violin. That was – I can't – please, just let me make sure you're all right. I saw you scratching.”

Oh.

Sherlock does take off his trousers, like a child chastened, and neither of them mention the very clear fact that his fingers are shaking. He stands still and stares at the windows and stoically lets John do his doctor thing.

Well, that's the plan, anyway.

Because the stoicism fails as soon as John's careful fingers press into the itching, red skin over his ribs. His gaze drops into that point of contact, and it feels like a brand. Skin on skin. Somehow, it's different than if it was his palm John was touching, or even his arm.

It's terrifying. Breathing normally takes all of his concentration. Transport. Only that. Doesn't matter. Shouldn't matter. Don't squirm.

“Damn,” John mutters. “Don't think I didn't notice that. We need to bandage this. No wonder you had trouble sitting still. This must sting.”

Sherlock frowns. Why is he perpetually off the loop here? It does sting, obviously, it's a chemical burn after all. But he had hardly noticed the pain, thoughts elsewhere. They washed the area, didn't they? Yes, Anderson made sure of that. Never has the tech helped him before with such a glee. Drenching someone in cold water really must be a fulfilling experience.

How can they both think about skin, the _same_ skin, and still be in completely different worlds?

“Sherlock?”

“Yes,” he manages to answer, lips frozen in uncertainty. “Yes, it burns.”

John shakes his head and then that head drops down and to his side, and Sherlock is nearly naked and John is kneeling at his feet and he has read of this sort of thing but sulphuric acid had never featured in those proceedings. He chews his lower lip nervously. Is this a doctor thing still?

Where does the doctor role stop and the – other – role begin?

“Can I?” John asks, and it's bad, it would have been easier if he had just done it, but now Sherlock has to be a part of this. Now he has to acknowledge it's happening.

“Are we friends?” Sherlock asks and John glances up at him, surprised. He's so small, squatting there on the floor, but still it's Sherlock who feels vulnerable, horribly raw and exposed. John has made his position clear in the past. He desires to be a colleague, a flatmate, a blogger. Not a friend. But yet. The professional distance is fast disappearing here. Sherlock is in his socks and pants in their living room, and John is asking for a permission to touch. Only last month he was yelled at for wearing a towel into the kitchen. The rules are changing too fast.

His ears are ringing.

“You took a vat of acid for me two hours ago, Sherlock,” John replies, slowly, and his voice is hatefully gentle. “I think the friendship line has been officially crossed.”

“Then what are you doing?” Sherlock demands, because if this isn't a doctor thing then he doesn't know how to handle it, and matters are confusing enough as they stand. Did he spoil it by doing what he did? Should he have allowed the vat reach John?

But he couldn't have allowed it. He couldn't have just remained there and let it happen.

The thought takes his balance away, but so do John's eyes, hard and determined. He stumbles, but John is at his front and the wall is at his back. There's nowhere to go, no place to hide. John shakes his head, and now Sherlock recognises that expression from before. It's fear, not fury. He scared John, at the crime scene. And he's still scared.

He doesn't sound scared, though.

“I'm checking your stupid transport over for damage, Sherlock. Now shut up and let me concentrate, if that's all right for you.”

And John waits until he nods stiffly, holding his eyes in challenge. And then he puts his hands back on Sherlock's skin, runs his fingers over his hips and thighs and calves like it's nothing out of the ordinary, like every trace isn't forever branded into Sherlock's sensory memory. John presses his fingers into Sherlock's sides, mutters at the red spots and shakes his head disapprovingly, and it's fast becoming too much, too intimate, too real for Sherlock to take. So John is his friend. Friends shouldn't feel like this, gangly and awkward, one question mark after another. Friends shouldn't care about things like this.

“I forgot to say earlier, but thanks,” John sighs finally, when Sherlock's nerves stand at attention and scream for the next touch which never comes. Instead, John stands up and brings his face close to Sherlock's own (but no closer than before, and why does this suddenly feel close when it never before did?) and smiles again.

“Off to the shower with you,” John tells him, for some reason sad now, and Sherlock is moving before he remembers to scowl. “Make it a long one,” John calls after him, “we'll put those bandages in place after you're done.”

His ears only stop ringing when the water hits his head. What's wrong with him? Yes, John has finally confessed to be a willing part of this friendship, but he's also a doctor. This kind of thing must be a daily occurrence for him. He just wanted to make sure Sherlock hadn't come to too much harm. It's the polite thing to do after someone steps in front of a vat of sulphuric acid flying towards your face.

He's being an idiot.

How on earth is he going to survive through the bandaging?


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He hadn't known that this is a thing that still happens._

“Wow, Sherlock, how many blankets is that?”

“Four,” he mumbles, gritting his teeth against the pounding headache and the incessant shivers. “Four-ish.”

“No, it's not, even mine is gone, and how on earth did you manage the stairs? It's seven, Sherlock, seven fucking blankets. I didn't even know we had that many.”

That's correct, they don't. After raiding John's bedroom Sherlock took a detour to Mrs Hudson's. The garish yellow one is hers, as is the heavy knitted one with cherries and baubles. Sherlock feels a bit like the pea from the fairytale of the wet princess, but mostly he feels like death.

He burrows deeper into the warm cave. Well, his mind knows it's warm. His body is having other thoughts, and telling it to shut up isn't currently working on an optimal level. Oh God, this is hateful. Even worse, this is mundane. He's got better things to do than be ill. And if he has to be ill, couldn't it be something suitably mysterious, like a tropical flu or previously unknown parasites? Not _this_. Anyone could do this.

Well. It could be worse. At least he isn't currently throwing up. Some little shards of his self-esteem are still spared for some other calamity.

“Right, stay there, I'll get you some peppermint tea with honey.”

Sherlock frowns into his pillow. Where does John expect he would be going? Braving the steps while John was working was a challenge enough for the day. He suspects he isn't fit enough to stand up, not to mention putting his clothes on and slipping away into the traffic of Baker Street. He shudders and suffers through the rituals of The Boiling of The Water and The Making of The Tea, and despite his dark mood the familiar sounds coming from the kitchen manage to cheer him up. A spoon, clinking against the side of his favourite mug. Honey being measured into the drink. John is generously using a table spoon – small mercies there. Steps, wandering around the kitchen and finally back through his doorway.

“Here you go. Have you measured the fever?”

He turns to his stomach and grabs the hot cup of tea, brings it close to his face, inhales. Under the blankets, it sends out a lovely hot steam which clings to his skin like sweat. But he still smells nothing. He stares at the mug, doubting.

“It's peppermint and honey, just like I said. I asked, have you measured the fever?”

He tries the drink out. Tea is one of his few acceptable comforters. If even that is taken from him, what's left?

It tastes like warmth dripping down his aching throat. That, and nothing else. He wants to curl into himself and fast forward into tomorrow. This is horrendous.

“Sherlock, are you even listening? How high is your fever? Have you measured it?”

He nurses the mug, takes another sip and shudders at the way it spreads warmth into his body. Oh. That feels rather nice.

“Oh for God's sakes.”

He peeks out from under the blankets, rasping a thank-you for the tea, but his friend is gone. He frowns again. Maybe John is busy tonight?

Sherlock decides to concentrate on the things he can affect. At the moment, this includes the peppermint tea which tastes like warmth and not much else. And then even the tea is gone. He sighs.

Well, that distraction was nice while it lasted.

He closes his eyes, snuggles the warm mug close to his chest and hopes for sleep.

A stomping of angry feet is the only warning he gets. The blankets are ripped away and cold air surges into their place, sending fresh shivers through his body. He peeks up wearily and curls tighter around the mug, his only source of any warmth. John's furious face downgrades instantly into irritation. The hostilely wielded thermometer hits the mattress half a second before a plastic bottle of pills do. 

“ _Fuck_ , Sherlock, you could've mentioned you sleep naked.”

Sherlock blinks hazily at that, but before he has had time to formulate an intelligent answer the thermometer is stuck into his armpit and one of the blankets is jerked up to cover him. It doesn't do much to ease the glacial coldness in his bones, but he feels too bemused to complain. Did he sleep? He must have slept, if only for half a minute. He stares at John and John stares at the ceiling until a little beep informs them that the deed is done. John hoards the device before Sherlock manages to even stir.

“38.4 degrees, Sherlock. You really don't do fever, don't you? I thought you were closer to forty, the way you went about it!”

Splendid. Now that his weakness has been broadcasted for the whole flat to hear, maybe they could go back to the point of him being violently divested of the bedding?

But then John smiles at him, throwing him off balance once again. He's too slow like this. Is John mad? Isn't he mad? Should Sherlock be angry, grateful, sorry? He groans, tries to take charge of the situation. That's his job, isn't it? Knowing what's going on?

“I took pills already,” he offers, voice half muffled by the pillows. To his surprise, he finds that he doesn't mind John being here, even when he's being irrational and throwing his blankets around. John gives him something to concentrate on, other than his own misery.

Sherlock hopes John stays.

“That's good,” says John and, after a moment a hesitation, gives him back two of the blankets. Sherlock casts a longing gaze at Mrs Hudson's knitted one, but it stays on the floor. When he raises his eyes again, John is gone.

–

It's dark and there's tea on his bedside table and a cool, comforting hand on his forehead. His bones hurt.

–

He wakes up shivering. The knitted blanket is carefully tucked in around him. He listens to the muted sounds of telly coming from the living room, detached and dreamlike. His own room stays shadowed and empty. At some point, he falls asleep again.

–

John. Pills. Cool water. He aches all over. He smiles. This is nice.

–

“Sherlock? Sherlock! The fever broke, wake up. You're sweating it out now.”

He doesn't hurt. He's not cold. He refuses to move, to open his eyes. Everything feels like floating.

“Oh for – how old are you, seven? Fine. Fine. Have it your way.”

John leaves. He always leaves and takes his short words and his fading anger with him. And then he comes back, soft shoeless steps across the floor, and something moist and warm caresses Sherlock's forehead.

He opens his eyes out of sheer surprise.

John's face, hovering over his. His eyes, narrowed in concentration. He's – he's wiping Sherlock's face with a wet cloth, washing the fever-sweat away. Sherlock can't stop staring, following the direction of John's gaze with his own eyes.

No one ever, not after Mummy.

He hadn't known that this is a thing that still happens.

“Do you treat all your patients this well, Doctor?” He rasps, and it sounds a bit more like him than before. Very dark. Very low.

John's hand shoots up, his eyes jerk away. Then, very deliberately, he turns to hold Sherlock's gaze, returns to what he was doing.

“Only the idiotic ones,” he answers, and the syllables are very clear, concise. He's not looking for a fight, he's asserting a fact. Sherlock gifts him the softest smile he can manage and sighs, closes his eyes to better enjoy the unexpected attention. He imagines that he can catch a hint of John's fingertips along the edges of the flannel, measuring the width of his cheekbones, his jaw.

It comes to him that he's still naked under the blankets, and he wonders if that matters this time. Is this another not-done thing? One of those details which will cause people to either hit him or run away swearing? Somehow, it doesn't seem so very important right now. It's John, after all. Not people, but John. He allows himself to float a moment longer. His muscles relax. His bones follow soon after.

“That's your face done,” says John, rousing him up from his almost-slumber. “Think you can manage a shower?”

Sherlock pretends he doesn't hear. This is too lovely to stop just yet. Maybe John could be persuaded to continue for a while longer?

“Sherlock?”

He takes a risk, nuzzles a pillow with his cool, clean cheek. Lets his bliss bleed into his face for a second.

“Sherlock?”

He manages not to hold his breath.

“Fine,” says John, but he doesn't sound angry. No, not at all. He's almost – fond. And now he's going away again, and Sherlock can't quite mask his disappointment. John is in the bathroom. He's running water. Does he plan to herd Sherlock into a bath? No, he's coming back. He's.

He's.

He's gently rolling the blanket down, exposing Sherlock's sweaty chest, taking his time with it, looking for any signs of discomfort maybe? Is he going to - ?

Is he actually going to - ?

He is. The flannel is back, warmer and wetter than before, carefully rubbing into his shoulders, his arms, his chest, softly gliding over the spots where his skin is still marred after the acid episode. It feels heavenly.

This time, he can't hide his contented sigh, the way his whole body melts into the mattress. The blanket rests modestly over his hips, and he doesn't quite know for whose sake it's there, but it doesn't matter. Because the gentle swipes of the flannel, the repetitive kneading into his bed-sore muscles proves too relaxing, impossible to resist.

He falls into a real, deep sleep before John is anywhere near finished with him.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Somehow, he has to solve this without a control group._

In the safe confines of his mind palace, Sherlock Holmes is baffled. The object of his mystification is currently sitting in his comfy chair, chewing a pencil and failing to solve a crossword puzzle. (Sherlock doesn't know what John is doing in the real world, but he likes to keep him here like this, at least when John's not helping him figure out cases.) John should be banal and uninteresting, but somehow he isn't. And somehow, little by little, there has grown to be this unvoiced question of skin between them. Which shouldn't happen, since Sherlock hasn't been interested in such things in the last decade-and-half, and John has been both vocal and adamant about his personal orientation. (“He doth protest too much,” Mycroft had pointed out months ago, but Sherlock has long since stopped listening to his brother.) But the fact remains that John Watson is many things, and one of them seems to be a master of mixed signals.

Why this mastery should mainly manifest as reactions about Sherlock's body, the detective can only guess at.

From anger to gentleness, and from professionalism to intimacy, John has changed. It's been a veritable roller coaster ride, one that has left Sherlock in a constant state of bewilderment. Just as he believes he's finally figured the rules out, they seem to shift. This latest change in particular has left him full of questions.

He spent two days last week ill, which is always both annoying and embarrassing. John was angry. There's nothing new there, John always seems to angry when Sherlock's behaviour steers outside the hazy limits of acceptable parameters. But somehow that whole episode had still ended with contentment on the levels which Sherlock hadn't thought possible to reach without the help of certain banned chemicals.

Who could have known that a simple touch could be so enjoyable?

So, of course, as soon as he'd felt better he'd booked himself appointments with several different masseurs for extrapolation's sake. But while grooming and massaging did give him satisfaction, at least when done by actual professionals, his body's response has been nowhere near the levels John manages to raise in him. There's something more to John's touch, something that he has failed to take into account.

They're confirmed friends now, and for the first time in his life Sherlock laments the fact he's not more sociable. Because the next logical step would be to repeat the scenes with another friend and see if same kind of reactions occur there. But the only person Sherlock can think of to qualify even near that status is Lestrade, and removing clothing and requesting physical contact in his presence would undoubtedly be a doomed idea. And acquiring a new friend just for the experiment's sake seems like too much trouble for too little gain.

He could, of course, ask Molly, but that would certainly be understood in the wrong way. The Barts lab is invaluable to him, and John yells at him about Molly on a weekly basis already. Somehow, he has to solve this without a control group. Just him and John, then.

Well, if his options are this limited, the next best thing would surely be to repeat one of the earlier experiences, prior the updated friends-status. The process of elimination seems to be his best bet in this case. But which one should he pick, and how to introduce it to John?

The man is a doctor. Faking illness would be too difficult to maintain for long periods of time, and experience has shown that John won't be willing to come close to his unclad body before the fever has broken. And anyway, the friends-situation had been resolved by that point in the original case.

There are corrosive substances in the flat, of course, but that option isn't without its problems either. The last time acids were involved Sherlock had already gained John's sympathy by his self-sacrificing reaction (which still needs more analysis, but he's unwilling to dwell on that.) This time the circumstances would be different, and Sherlock has no reason to doubt John just wouldn't send him into shower, no touching necessary and difficult to even argue for.

No. The only viable option is to build on the sorry affair that started all this, the shower scenario. It should be easy enough. Just soil all the larger towels, wait until John is in the kitchen, and then use that door instead of his own. He could request that John take a look at a mole – something a doctor would find hard to refuse. After that it's a simple case of observation. He should have results by the nightfall. There are four possible outcomes as far as he's aware.

a) John reacts, either favourably or unfavourably, while Sherlock remains unaffected. Conclusion: the question of skin is a problem on John's end and may result in further misunderstandings and/or confusion. The flatmate code needs to be updated to allow for these disturbances.

b) John remains unaffected, but Sherlock experiences the same kind of hypersensitivity than before. Conclusion: he's simply inexperienced in this new relationship dynamic and should probably read some reports on the neurophysiological effects of flatsharing and friendship to make up for that deficit. Also, continued proximity to John is required to build up his resilience. 

c) Heightened emotional responses from both participants. Conclusion: this is the worst of the possible outcomes, calling whole friendship into question. Prior experience proposes that this promises nothing but trouble both for the Work and their living arrangements. Therefore, the status of their relationship should be examined with care, keeping in mind a possible need to downgrade back to flatmates if strong reactions keep on occurring. Sherlock hopes it doesn't come to this because he's quite attached to the idea of having a friend.

(“Harry will drop by later in the evening,” John's voice mentions. Sherlock makes a conformable noise, enough to draw a satisfied grunt from the voice and send it away.)

d) Little or no reactions from either of them. Conclusion: the situation has returned to normal and they can leave this awkward phase behind them. By far the best option out of the four.

Success will be determined by Sherlock's ability to boil water, make tea and drink it in John's presence while wearing a tea towel and chatting amiably about melanoma, by John's responses to these actions and both of their reactions to the act of examining a perfectly safe mole on Sherlock's left hip.

There. He feels better already.

The first step of the plan is put into action immediately. Sherlock sneaks into the bathroom, removes all the bath towels and, after a moment of consideration, stuffs them under the loose floorboards in his room, next to the quite illegal rhododendron nectar and the other surviving parts of Billy. John will forget in approximately 2.7 months, after which date he can smuggle them back one by one. That finished, he decides to enjoy his well-earned shower in peace.

Towelling dry is a bit of an operation with only the tiny pieces of cloth available, but soon he's standing on the floor, keeping the small towel in place with his right hand, ready to start the experiment for real. A sudden bout of nerves has him hesitating, the same kind of feeling that he experiences before starting a new type of chemistry experiment or opening a particularly promising package from the morgue. It's the feeling of not knowing what's going to happen next.

To not know is exhilarating.

It's also something of a speciality of John's.

He opens the door.

–

“John! I just noticed this mole on my -,” he starts, striding into the living room, and two tawny heads turn around to face him. He stops dead, the practised lines disappearing from his memory.

There's a female John sitting on the sofa.

The female John is ogling him with large, blue eyes and a very familiar surprised expression.

The female John is wearing a smartly cut jacket and pressed trousers, and a generous amount of foundation.

The female John is extremely distressing.

Nevertheless, the experiment must continue.

“A napkin, Sherlock, really?” John's voice has that particular tint which hides nerves just beneath a placid surface. He takes an anxious look at the other person in the room. “This is my sister Harry. Harry, Sherlock.”

“Nice to meet you, Sherlock,” says the female John, who seems to be the least affected of them all. Then she gets up and gives him her hand. Instinctively, Sherlock shakes it.

The near miss with the towel is only prevented by John's sharp reflexes. The untangling of limbs which follows has John blushing violently and Harry rolling her eyes.

“Likewise,” Sherlock manages, just as John snaps something about _clothes_ and _what the everlasting fuck_ and _go away, Sherlock, now, I mean it_.

“So, Sherlock,” asks Harry, ignoring her brother with a practised sisterly fashion. “What was that about a mole?”

“Never mind the mole,” John cuts in. “Sherlock, where the fuck are your clothes? What are you still doing here?”

Sherlock sighs. It seems clear John isn't willing to take part in the experiment when they had such a botched start. Pity.

“I'm talking with your sister,” he answers, even though strictly speaking he isn't.

“Well, stop it,” says John, turns him around by shoulders and shoves him towards the bedroom. “And don't come back before you're decent! Christ, Sherlock!”

Trying to continue in these circumstances would be pointless. Sherlock swallows his defeat and marches into the bedroom, head held up high.

Well.

That could have worked better. There go the last vestiges of his fading mysteriousness. And once again, John is furious with him. He managed to complete the circle, they're back in the place they started from. Great job, Sherlock. Excellently conducted. 

But who could have known there'd be option e?

Through the thin door, the Watsons' voices carry easily.

“I'm sorry, Harry, but that's Sherlock for you. He doesn't mean to discomfit people. It just happens.”

“Don't worry about me, I've seen much worse things. But wow, I thought you were exaggerating. I've got some friends who'd make an exception just for him.”

“I'm sure he'll be pleased to know that,” John answers, quick and embarrassed. Sherlock stops dressing, concentrates on listening.

“Don't be like that, John. I do have eyes. He's going to do a fine job broadening your horizons.”

Sherlock frowns. What does she mean?

“My horizons are broad enough already, thank you very much.”

“Oh, I wouldn't be so sure, little brother.”


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was wrong, earlier, when he thought that John touching his chest and his legs felt intimate. This is a thousand times more private, and they're both fully clothed and in public._

He can't win the towel scenario. He just can't. Also, he can't try for the third time. Even John would figure out something was going on if Sherlock kept walking on him in a towel week after week. As it stands, he's quite worried about the fallout from this latest failure, but John seems to let it go.

In fact, John doesn't want to discuss Harry at all, changing the subject hurriedly as soon as Sherlock tries to ask about her. Which is a shame, since Sherlock is kind of curious about that chat the Watsons had in the living room after his banishment to his own quarters. When Sherlock had emerged, both of the siblings were sipping tea in the most polite fashion he'd ever witnessed, and Harry in particular had looking angelic enough to raise even Anderson's suspicions. But John won't talk about it, no matter how desperate Sherlock gets.

He even tells a thing or two about his own childhood with Mycroft, hoping some kind of mutual sharing of information between confirmed friends might occur. No such luck. When John Watson doesn't want to spill his beans, it's impossible to make him. In the end, Sherlock gives up and then a couple of interesting cases turn up and before he knows it two weeks have passed and they're walking home from Westminster.

The question of skin is nearly forgotten, and in the rush of a moment he doesn't have time to realise that that can of worms is reopened before the deed is already done.

John is chatting about the case they've just closed, the one with lots of body parts and not nearly enough bodies. He's trying to come up with a name for the eventual blog entry, but all of his suggestions sound even worse than usual. Sherlock listens with half an ear, shooting them down as they emerge, when an abnormal sound catches his attention. 

There's a kid in a school uniform holding a blue leash with an empty collar at its end. The kid is bawling his eyes out and there are couple of frozen adults standing around him, as useless as most of the Met in a crime scene. It's all Sherlock needs to see.

“Take this,” he interrupts John, who's currently wavering between The Gravest Case and Too Many Toes Spoil The Broth, which is what Sherlock knows he'll unfortunately end up with. Even Lestrade is going to roll his eyes. Never mind that now, there are more important things to take care of. He dumps his poor substitute of a coat into John's arms and strides towards the people standing on the pier.

It's a dachshund, and it's currently pawing frantically in the water, the currents taking it further and further away from the shore. John appears next to him, finally understanding that something is amiss. His eyes scan the water, looking for a head. Someone is trying to pacify the hysterical kid. Idiots, all of them, stepping from foot to foot but unwilling to do anything. Damn the bystander effect.

“Down there,” says Sherlock, fingering his buttons open as fast as he's able to. As soon as the shirt comes free he rips it off, steps out of his shoes and dives into the murky river, followed by surprised shouts from the gathered people and a loud “Sherlock!” from John. Ignore that. In the water his perspective is different, and the dog is small enough to disappear behind the waves. Sherlock paddles in place, trying to locate it.

“To your right!” John hollers from the pier and Sherlock turns that way, letting the strong current help him move faster through the littered city water. The coldness starts to affect him already, making breathing harder and nipping the bare skin of his torso. No time for that, now. A little dark brown head comes into view and then vanishes again. It's not far, maybe forty feet away from him. He heads towards it, trying to work out how long the dog has been in the river and how fast hypothermia is likely to set in a body that tiny.

“Left!” John yells and Sherlock turns mindlessly, following the directions. He spots the dog again. Twenty feet. Almost there. He's close enough to hear the desperate kicking of the little paws and see the rolling white backs of its sclerae. It's terrified. Then it disappears under the waves. On the shore, the kid starts screaming.

“Left! Left!” He hears John call and he dives, reaching into the murky, cold water until his fingers meet something solid and warm. He grasps it and heads to the surface to the cheering of the gathered morons. Irrelevant. The scared dog claws at him to get further away from the danger, and then Sherlock realises that he has to swim against the current to get them back to the shore. He talks to the dog, trying to soothe it, kicking the water with both legs and one arm.

It's heavy going, and his breaths become pants before they're nearly their destination. John is hopping from foot to foot and then Sherlock sees him put his clothes down and start to open his own jacket.

“Don't!” He shouts. He's all right. It's going to be all right.

John doesn't seem to agree.

Sherlock swims faster. The people cheer louder.

“Here!” John calls, running into a lower level of the pier, one that is used for boarding into the river cruise boat tours. The kid follows him, calling the dog between his sobs. Sherlock hands the dachshund over first, and its young owner hugs it to his chest and stammers a stream of thanks. Apparently, the dog is called Vic. Sherlock barely hears him. John is giving him a Look.

He has no idea what that look means. It's an expression he hasn't seen on John's face before, and suddenly he's unwilling to come out of the water. But then his wrist is in John's grasp and he's hauled to the shore and the breeze feels even colder than the water did.

“You need to get a tighter collar,” Sherlock tells the kid, opting to ignore his friend for a moment. John doesn't let go, however.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he mutters and starts patting him dry with his jacket. He tries to reach for his own shirt, but John slaps his hand away and takes off his sweater instead, towelling Sherlock's head and shoulders dry with it. John's cheeks are red, but his eyes are warm. He keeps shaking his head, but he doesn't look angry. In fact, he looks like he might start laughing, or maybe crying. Sherlock is confused. At least that's nothing new.

“You,” John starts, but then he bites his lower lip and concentrates on patting Sherlock's back dry.

“Yes?”

“Are you cold?” It's not what he was thinking about, that much is evident. But then he nods approvingly, squeezing the sweater dry and letting Sherlock put his shirt and the abominable surrogate coat on. It's too short, and not nearly warm enough, and even the wrong colour. Sherlock despises that coat, but John's skin is healthy and unblemished, and for that he's willing to wear the most horrific garments available, and even scars on his own body.

Funny, that.

“Yes,” Sherlock admits, because there's no way John won't catch the shivers going through his arms and legs. John frowns, comes closer and takes his palm, proceeds to rub it between his own, warm hands. “And I want a shower.”

“Let's go then,” John proposes, and they take off through the thinning crowd. John offers to haul a cab, but Sherlock wants to walk, to keep his limbs moving and his thoughts busy. Something is different. For starters, John hasn't let go of his hand. He leads Sherlock away from the river, not once releasing him. It's surprisingly nice.

“I didn't take you for the type to dive into rivers and rescue dogs,” John admits, fingers tightening around his wrist as if Sherlock was trying to free himself. He's, actually, doing nothing of the sort.

“Why not?” He asks, eyes glued into that point of contact. He was wrong, earlier, when he thought that John touching his chest and his legs felt intimate. This is a thousand times more private, and they're both fully clothed and in public. He realises that his fingers are lying loose in John's grip. That's not right. He stretches them carefully, wraps them around John's. Yes. This is better.

John gives the street ahead the slightest smile.

It's actually quite perfect.

“It just didn't seem like a thing you'd do. After all your bullshit about not caring.”

“We had a dog when I was a child,” Sherlock tells him, without planning to, at least seventy percent of his concentration captured in their interwoven fingers.

“You did? Funny that, I never thought you'd been a pet family. With the way you and Mycroft turned out.” John sounds easy, joking even. Sherlock feels something move inside him. He doesn't want to think about his family now.

“I loved that dog,” he huffs sharply.

John's fingers go lax with surprise, then tighten again. Tighter than before. Surer, somehow. An unmistakable hold around his hand.

“I see,” he says, and they walk the rest of the way in silence, never letting go of each other.


	6. +1 (or the one where John starts it)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It was just one little dog,” Sherlock manages, and it's not exactly a question._

John sends him into shower. That's all.

Sherlock finds he's strangely disappointed. Walking the familiar streets, little pebbles crunching under his soles, grasping John's hand with his own, it had seemed like it should lead into something. But John had just smiled at him, and patted his arm, and told him to go and get warm, you dick, you smell.

So now Sherlock is standing in the tub and letting the hot water wash away both the chill and the molecular evidence of John's touch, and he doesn't quite to know what to do, or how to feel.

Holding hands had been – good. It had been very good, and isn't that a revelation? Isn't that just the kind of thing he has been sniffing at for the most of his life, ever since he grew too old to cling to his brother's sleeves? It's a stupid, pointless thing to do, and yet he wants to do it again. And what should be made out of John, his steadfast, loyal, vocally protesting John, proudly escorting him through the city?

Sherlock frowns and washes his hair again. He both wants to and is terrified to exit the bathroom. The after-case slump is approaching fast, only kept away by this new befuddlement. He could sneak into his bedroom and sleep for half a day, but then what? Has he triggered something, has something changed between him and John?

It was just a small dog.

There's a knock on the door, then another. Sherlock closes his eyes.

“Mind if I join you?”

Sherlock crunches his eyes closed, tighter. This is unexpected.

“J – join me? In the shower?”

“Well, yes.” John sounds amused. “That's where you are, isn't it?”

His voice is infinitely gentle, terribly patient. It's something Sherlock hasn't heard many times, maybe just once or twice. He thinks John was like this when he was ill, just a shivering, miserable wreck under the blankets, but his memories of those hours are hazy at best.

“Sherlock?”

“No,” he bites out before his nerves get a hold of him. “No, I don't mind. Do. Come in, I mean.”

Everything grows quiet. Even the dropping water seems to zone out. It's like the whole room is holding its breath with him.

The shower curtains are see-through. Sherlock doesn't know if he should panic or reach for a towel or just stand still and let John take care of this, whatever it is. And then he runs out of time to make a decision.

The door opens, and John steps in.

Sherlock blinks, and then he doesn't stop for a while. What.

John is naked. Not almost naked, not sporting a towel. He's just naked. Gloriously so.

Sherlock's mind goes blank. There isn't room for a single deduction, question, observation. There's just John.

John turns to look at him, calm and unashamed. A soldier sharing lodgings? No. Not that. A person willing to hold another's hand in a crowd, where anyone could see. Can see. Has seen. Will see? The state of Sherlock's mind must be visible, even to John, even through the curtains, because he closes the door and then just stands there, letting the realisation seep in.

“That's not something one witnesses every day,” John states, his voice conversational. The corners of his mouth look like they're holding back an escaping smile, his forehead hides a frown. He keeps himself still, doesn't come any closer. Lets Sherlock blink and blink and find his voice again. When it comes, it moulds itself into a familiar sound, full of questions.

“John?”

“Well, yeah,” John says, and then he blushes a bit. It's a lovely thing around his collar bones and throat, hollowing the contrast between the tanned and the covered areas. Well, usually covered. Sherlock's gaze travels down, widens, hastily returns to John's face. His eyes know too much. It's all a bit too much.

So this is what it feels like when the tables are turned. Freefall.

“It was just one little dog,” Sherlock manages, and it's not exactly a question. This time, the smile blooms, free and stunning, on John's face.

“But it wasn't, was it?” He muses. “It was so much more. It was you, being adorable and flustered in the kitchen with your stupid pansies.”

 _I'm not adorable_ , Sherlock's brain protests immediately. His mouth stays shut. There are certain speeches which you just don't interrupt. John stops, waits for his indignation, beams at him when it doesn't come.

“And then you did that idiotic thing with the acid, and really, Sherlock, I'm still mad at you for that. And it just kept on stacking. But do you know what the last straw was?”

Sherlock shakes his head. No. No, he hasn't got any idea. He's not even quite sure which straw they're talking about. John takes a step forward then. Suddenly, he's right next to the tub. It's a small bathroom.

“It wasn't Harry, although she did have part in that. Before her, I thought it was just me. But she got me wondering.”

“But,” Sherlock says from behind numb lips. Looking away from John is a physical impossibility. He's naked, and he's tiny on the floor, and if either of them moved their hands they'd be touching.

“You loved that dog. You really did. And I thought to myself, if you can love a dog and it leaves marks like that, could you love me, too? And I looked back, and it was – can I come in? Can I come into the shower, Sherlock?”

Some of his deductive powers are slowly coming back online. Sherlock looks, and he sees.

“You're cold,” he observes.

John offers a sheepish shrug. “A bit,” he admits, “but mostly nervous. You're being awfully quiet. Do you want me to go away? I will, if you'd prefer that.”

“No! I mean, don't go. Do come. In. Please.”

It's a tiny tub, not designed for two adult men, even if one of them was on the smaller side. Not touching is impossible.

Touching, then again, is – distracting.

John's skin is cold at first, but it warms quickly. It becomes wet and slippery and lovelier than any skin has any business being. Sherlock is lost in the rivulets of water making their way down his shoulders and chest, over his softly curved belly and to below. It looks like even water loves John, clings to him, doesn't want to let go.

John is talking again.

“Hmm?” He asks, lost in the little streams.

“I said, would you want me to scrub your back?” John repeats, looking at him with stars in his eyes.

Sherlock is confused. Is that a thing? He shrugs uncertainly and turns around, immediately missing the shape and colours of John. But then there is the rough texture of a sponge pressing into the skin between his shoulder blades, and John starts rubbing it in circular motions, and Sherlock meets heaven. He gasps at the wall. This so is a thing.

John stops immediately.

“Something wrong?”

“No. I just – continue, please. It feels good.”

John does. He washes Sherlock's back, and his arms, and kneels down and rubs soap into his legs and calves, fingers dancing over the scarred spots where the acid met skin. He even wiggles some shower gel between Sherlock's toes, which is how they find out he's ticklish there. They stay in the shower until they run out of hot water. It's all shades of perfect, and then it's over and Sherlock feels awkward once again.

“Off you hop,” John urges him and pulls out the new, luxurious towels Sherlock bought as an apology after the Harry fiasco. Towelling off together in the tiny room is a challenge in itself, but soon they emerge into the kitchen, towels wrapped around waists. There are two cups waiting on the table, and John flicks the kettle on, turns to smile at Sherlock.

Once again, the walls hold their breath. John steps closer.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers, and he tries to hide it, but Sherlock still sees the fear in his eyes. He suspects it's present in his own expression as well. He nods, more jerkily than he'd like to.

It's just a soft brush of closed lips, nothing more, and he's all kinds of thankful for that. Because there's already so much to work through, turn over, analyse and understand. His brain is nearing an overload point, and they only took a shower.

No. Not only. They, colossally, took a shower.

John draws away, looks at him and now Sherlock recognises that expression on John's face, the same one that he wore after dragging him out of the river and during the long walk home. He's not quite crying and not quite laughing and so, so tender.

“That wasn't so difficult, was it?” He asks, and Sherlock isn't sure if that was a rhetorical question or not, but he shakes his head anyway. No. It wasn't.

The kettle boils. Tea is ready. John draws him into the living room and they sit on their chairs until Sherlock can't mask his yawns any more, and then he's on his bed and John is standing over him and looking down at him. He kneels down and presses another kiss on his forehead, on the same place where his palm rested when Sherlock had the fever all those weeks ago.

“Sleep well,” he whispers.

Sherlock is already dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all done, and it got even soppier than I expected! If you enjoyed reading, you might want to leave a comment or visit my [Tumblr](http://tunteeton.tumblr.com) where I post about my writing and reblog a lot of lovely fan art.


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